Order and the Suspect Suicide

By Greg Cornwell

This is the first of several novella length ebooks featuring John Order, a politician in the ACT Legislative Assembly. The novellas are sequential but stand alone. they are not tales of international or national danger, spies and traitors but rather a humble backbencher who manages to attract bodies both dead and alive while simultaneously fighting off attempts to end his own (political) life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781742845142

Greg Cornwell

Greg Cornwell AM is a former Member of the ACT Legislative Assembly (1992-2004 and Speaker 1995-2001). He is a proponent of death with dignity, has appeared before the ACT Assembly’s recent End of Life Choices and wants a national referendum or plebiscite on the subject ASAP. He is more well-known for his crime novellas published as e-books and in print, featuring John Order, a local ACT politician and sleuth. He regards Twilight as ‘reality fiction’, a story addressing an issue of concern to everyone, as all should have a choice of death and the legal right to decide.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Don’t.

The rifle briefly rose and John Order, a Member of Parliament of the Australian Capital Territory legislature, settled back in the chair.

Three months after the by-election and with a majority of 176 votes - a figure forever at the forefront of his mind as he carried out his daily duties - Order needed no encouragement from the Party secretary to get out and doorknock the electorate.

This was why he found himself sitting in the lounge room of a rundown Canberra guvvie, a clipboard across his knees, facing an armed man and his nose tingling from stale cigarette smoke.

You said you wanted to talk, he began, remembering their initial meeting at the front door.

Whatever you do don’t go inside, Bernie had cautioned, you’ll waste too much time. A quick smiling introduction, hand over a business card and then away, unless someone had a question or a problem to be noted on the clipboard.

Fat chance faced with a rifle.

Yes. But it’s complicated. He was well spoken.

Tall and lean, like Order himself, but with long mousy hair rather than the dark crop on his own head. The man looked morose and tired.

Howso?

You wouldn’t understand. I don’t even know why you’re here. he added, emphasising the situation with another jerk of the weapon.

You said you were from Sydney. Been here long? He’d already explained his visit.

Couple of weeks.

Looking for a job?

Looking for something. He tensed. No, no bird. It’s just complicated.

If it isn’t a woman, what is it? I can’t help if you don’t tell me.

Who asked you? the man questioned belligerently and lapsed into unfriendly silence.

Watching the man and the rifle with careful but still nonchalance, Order realised with surprise he was not afraid. This fellow wouldn’t hurt him, not deliberately, because whatever was worrying him it was not John Order or anything he stood for. He was not a political crank, someone with a grudge agin’ the government, politicians in general or authority itself. He was too removed from such passions.

The real risk was an accidental discharge of the weapon.

Sorry, didn’t catch that? Order became aware the man was speaking again.

D’you know something called Moby?

Can’t say I do. Know where it is?

Just asking.

Look, I don’t know why I’m here or what you want, Order said in the following silence. What’s your problem? He risked leaning forward confidentially.

Forget it! The man rose quickly, almost upsetting the ashtray at his feet and dislodging a piece of paper on the arm rest.

He was out of the room heading further into the house by the time Order cautiously settled back in the chair.

John Order, newly elected Member of Parliament, was thinking about a rush to the front door when he heard an unmistakable crack that if it wasn’t a firecracker was a shot.

Two hours later Order was thinking of making the same rush, except that he had no chance of success this second time. The police were everywhere.

No sir, I’m still here.

The plainclothes officer turned away so Order could not follow the conversation on the mobile telephone. The interruption gave him time to reflect again on what he had seen.

The man’s body had been sprawled against the cheap fibro of the bathroom wall, between the toilet and a stained old bath. With the rifle barrel resting against his left thigh and both legs half bent in the same direction, he looked like a sleeping soldier from one of the paintings in the Australian War Memorial further across town.

The bloodied head dispelled this gentle impression.

Order had never seen a dead person before, yet he was detached from any special feeling. He didn’t know the man and although it was a shabby way to die beside a grubby bath that was the situation and he knew what he had to do.

As Order had explained to the policeman, he had not checked the man’s pulse because there was no sign of life from the body but had gone promptly to his car to telephone the authorities. Fortunately, because he had almost finished the block, the vehicle had been around the corner.

Why didn’t you have the mobile with you? the young policeman had asked, bewildered why anyone would separate themselves from one of life’s necessities.

I don’t like carrying it on doorknocks. It’s something else to cart around an’ any call I do get could have waited.

He didn’t mention the mobile was a bulky old-fashioned unit given to him as a new member by penny-pinching bureaucrats. It sat uncomfortably in any pocket in which it was placed.

Why not use the ‘phone in the house?

A trace of suspicion perhaps in the policeman’s question?

I didn’t think about it an’ my own was nearby. An’ I didn’t see one.

In the kitchen, said the officer.

He had driven back to the house after making the call, experiencing an odd thrill at the secret he still held against all the neighbours as he pulled up in the silent drowsy Saturday afternoon street.

Inside again he checked the body and noted that the time was three-thirty five, which didn’t mean anything because he couldn’t remember when he had been first bailed up.

Now waiting for the police he was reluctant to sit down again, although he knew he would not disturb any evidence by doing so. It was standing self-consciously in the middle of the tatty lounge room still uncomfortable from the cigarette smell that he noticed the paper beside the dead man’s chair.

It was not his business card, which Scots forebears frugality would have urged him to retrieve, but part of a printed logo like you see on company letterheads.

Moby Investments he read, then a section of a post office box number.

On impulse Order pocketed the paper and he felt its edge now as the policeman told him his boss was coming to continue the interview.

Detective Inspector Williams must have been on his way when he ‘phoned through because he arrived within minutes. He was a big man with patient eyes and the Canberra nous to know that dealing with a politician, even a possible oncer, called for tact.

You say you were doorknocking the neighbourhood? he began and Order once more explained his 176 vote majority.

You say you heard a shot? continued Williams, when Order again explained how he had come to be in the house. What did you do then?

I explained that too to the other officer.

Nobody else in the house?

Not as far as I was aware.

No noises for example, which might indicate the presence of someone else?

No.

And after the shot you investigated and found the deceased in the bathroom?

You didn’t look around the rest of the house? Williams continued upon his reply.

Why should I? There’s a body in the ‘loo an’ I’m the only person in the place.

Let’s go through it again, if you don’t mind, Mr. Order. Williams’ tone was deferential but still sceptical.

Well I don’t need to detain you any longer, Williams said after Order had repeated his story and the dead man’s failure to elaborate upon the ‘complications’ which had brought him to the National Capital.

No upcoming interstate or overseas committee trips, Mr. Order? It’s just that we may need to get in touch again.

No, but I’d like to be kept informed.

Of course.

Williams did not sound very convincing, thought Order as he walked into the street where the setting sun was casting long shadows.

The body must still be inside, he decided, because an ambulance was parked in front of his car and a group of neighbours were clustered on the other side of the blue and white police tape. A television crew was the other obvious indication all was not yet wrapped up here.

Mr. Order?

The young woman was smiling from a pretty face above a severe high necked green suit. The Canberra television stations had oddly formal dress codes for weekend reporters, he thought, silently composing himself for the interviews to come, because the woman now was joined by other newshounds.

How do you feel, Mr. Order? the interviewer began and he briefly considered saying full face into the camera: Like shit. I’ve just seen a dead body. How can you ask such a dumb question?

But he didn’t.

Rather he remembered the advice of Bernie, the Party secretary, that held more members talked themselves out of parliament than into the place and so kept his remarks short and guarded. Simply why he had been there and what had happened and yes, how shocked he was at such a tragic death.

He said nothing about the slip of paper in his pocket nor the dead man’s interest in something called Moby, reasoning these were not matters which should concern the insatiable public.

Nevertheless, he wondered why he had kept the same information from the police.

Chapter 2

At the regular Monday morning Party meeting Order noted reactions were mixed about his weekend adventure. In the casual talk preceding Fearless Leader’s arrival and the beginning of business there were a few joking references to law and order - a new but also resurrected play upon the parliamentary uses of his name which had tiresomely dogged his first few weeks in the legislature.

By and large those most generous were the members with safe seats while a touch of envy permeated the comments of those in the marginal constituencies, envious of the free publicity he had garnered even in the national media. Order again was reminded of Bernie’s truism that in politics you had many acquaintances but few friends.

Being a non-sitting week the meeting lasted longer than usual, with backbenchers raising issues they had not had the chance to bring up in the more tense and time precious gatherings before the insistent bells summoned them to the Chamber.

The level of crime was a perennial subject for the right wingers.

It comes to a pretty pass when one of our own is held up in broad daylight while simply going about his lawful political duties, topically complained Paul Severin, a capital punishment advocate.

Hope it doesn’t encourage copycat behavior, Order’s friend Rob Glasson interjected, taking some of the heat out of the criticism.

I wasn’t in any danger, Order protested.

You can’t be sure an’ anyway there’s no way we will ever find out. Was he black, by the way?

In the ensuing hubbub of protests from Party moderates Order wondered if the police had called with more information and at the end of the meeting hurried back to his office.

Elizabeth or Liz, his middle-aged secretary-cum-electorate assistant covered the mouthpiece of the telephone.

More media, she explained. This is the fourth this morning. Almost worth a media conference?

Tell them we’ll get back. I’ll need to clear it.

Shadow Ministers - as they liked to style themselves - often had announcements they wanted or needed to make and did not take kindly to backbenchers stealing their publicity opportunities. After a couple of